A Midwinter Carol
by Quatre-sama
Summary: One Midwinter, an idle comment made by Kel leads to something Wyldon had not actively considered...


Note: For Candice/boosette, because she inspired me in a meme.

The Longest Night of the Year

"His name is always tied to the lady knight's, but he should be looking for a wife rather than a play-thing; he's handsome and rich, and someone has to be in charge of the fief while he's practically single-handedly defending the Scanran border."

"Perhaps he's still in mourning? His daughters are grown and are no longer a part of his household – a good man-at-arms should suffice for running the fief. He can take all the time he needs to recover from his loss."

The ladies are standing not five feet away from Lord Wyldon, thinking their comments will not reach his ears. He grimaces and takes another drink from his goblet of wine, surveying the scene before him. He recognizes many of the knights who are dancing with the ladies of the court – but he is astonished to see how many young men he does _not_ know. The last group of boys he had trained were knighted two years prior – which means that these new green fellows are Paidrag's lot.

"Lady Vivenne passed away two years ago," the first woman says bossily. "He's had plenty of time to mourn. And if he _were_ still grieving his loss, he wouldn't spend all his hours with the Mindelan girl. My son says they are always together, locked in conversations. Mithros knows what they could be speaking of, if he isn't wooing her."

He can take no more of this.

It seems that every ball he attends this Midwinter has been the same: new knights are enjoying their youth and displaying their shiny shields, looking forward to the first encounter that will scratch them, and young ladies show off their their finery, gossiping about who wants to marry whom. He misses the days of being a training master; most people had assumed he was caught up in the Ordeals – that he had spent his evenings keeping vigil for his students. He had not, but he will not correct those who thought otherwise. He had enjoyed those evenings, spending the longest night of the year with Vivenne rather than exposing himself to boredom and flippant gossip.

Keladry of Mindelan, at least, is a welcome sight; she slips between pockets of chattering nobles to come to his side. "Lord Raoul is at it again," she says by way of greeting. "Rather than hiding behind curtains in here, he's issued invitations for friends and comrades to stop by his quarters for a spell this evening. He asked me to invite you along."

Wyldon raises his eyebrows. "So he's finally forgiven me for nearly getting you killed five years ago?"

She gives him her polite half-smile, but her eyes dance playfully. "He will lord that over you for as long as you both live. I think he likes that he caught you making an egregious error. It doesn't happen often, you know."

He smiles wryly. "No, of course not."

"Will you be able to stop in?" she asks hopefully. "A number of the Third Company will be there, along with knights and sensible ladies."

He glances backward at the twittering noblewomen. "Sensible, you say? That will be a relief." He looks at Kel again: she is gazing across the ballroom, likely looking for more acquaintances to whom she can issue this invitation. "Will you be there all evening?"

She shakes her head, her eyes returning to his face again. "Not the entire time, but I promised I would visit for a while."

"And do you plan to stay long at _this_ gathering?" he asks, nodding toward the dancers around them. While Kel is not as reclusive as her former knight-master, she does not seem to enjoy such large parties.

"I'm not one for dancing, sir. And I got my fill of these events as a squire." She smiles apologetically. "I'll be heading back to Raoul and Buri's quarters."

"May I join you now?" he asks, aware of another flurry of whispers from behind him.

Her eyes flick to the gossiping ladies and her smile falters. "You know you don't have to request permission."

They walk out together, Kel's usual long stride hindered by her formal gown. She lifts her skirts as they ascend the stairs, but still stumbles. He instinctively reaches out to steady her, and is rewarded with another storm of whispers from yet another crowd of onlookers.

"Thank you," she says, her voice low. "It's these cursed slippers. I should've gone with my instincts and wore sensible boots rather than risk turning my ankles at every set of stairs." Her face is impassive – over the years he has learned to recognize the calm expression as a façade disguising her true feelings. It had infuriated him in her youth, primarily because she wore it every time he questioned her or handed out punishments. But he has learned, from years of study, that Kel's lack of reaction is trained; tranquility falls into place when she is most flustered.

When they are outside of the ballroom, she stops to adjust her shoe. He holds on to one arm to help her balance, and is subjected – again – to stares of onlookers and women whispering behind fans. She rights herself and glances meaningfully at the men and women who watch them, and then continues to walk briskly down the empty corridor that leads to Lord Raoul's quarters.

"I'm afraid the gossip has been following me all evening," Wyldon says with a sigh, matching her steps. "People have been watching my every move, waiting for me to announce that I'm ready to remarry."

"For Mithros's sake," Kel mutters. "Every time I stand next to you or speak to you, I'm greeted with gossiping and ogling. We might as well _give_ them something to talk about."

Wyldon chuckles. "Is that an offer, Lady Knight?" he asks without thinking. His surprise at his own words is quickly replaced with a pang of regret for having spoken.

She throws him a sidelong glance, her full lips turn up into the slightest of smiles. "Perhaps it should be," she murmurs.

He stops suddenly, and she turns to face him. "Do you mean to say that, if I—?"

"Yes, sir," she answers quickly, cutting him off uncharacteristically.

"And you—?"

"Yes, sir." Her face again slips into that infuriatingly calm expression, but she steps closer to him.

He glances down the corridor, hoping no one has wandered in their direction. "May I…?"

"Yes, sir," she whispers, her eyes drifting shut and her long lashes fluttering prettily. He takes her by the elbows, pulling her even closer to him, and kisses her tentatively. Her lips are soft and yielding beneath his and she tastes like cider. He doesn't know what he had expected from kissing Keladry of Mindelan; he has never let idle daydreams linger long enough to imagine it. But had he ever done so, Wyldon is sure he would not have dreamt anything close to reality.

He finally pulls away, his eyes locked on hers. She smiles – not the polite half-smile he is accustomed to, but a delighted one. Her hazel eyes are alight and playful. "That certainly seems worth the gossip," she says, her quavering voice betraying her confident words.

"Lord Raoul wasn't expecting you back immediately, was he?" Wyldon asks; his own tone was low and husky.

Kel shakes her head. "Would you like to—"

"Yes."

His rooms are closer. When she closes the door behind her, he does not wait to light the lamps in the lush sitting room; he instead pins her between himself and the heavy door, kissing her almost greedily. She responds in kind, her arms wrapping around him and clutching tightly. He is not accustomed to someone quite so strong clinging to him. A low growl escapes as he kisses her even more deeply. He likes that she is so tall, that he merely has to tilt his head downward to meet her lips. And he loves how solid she is against him. He doesn't care for the waifish women in the ballroom, who look as though they might break if he applies too much pressure.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" she murmurs against his lips.

"Keladry, I've never been more certain of anything in my life." He pulls away from her, wishing he had lit the lamps if only to see her expression now. "Are _you _sure?"

"Yes - I just thought – maybe – we should talk first."

"This is too sudden, isn't it?" He steps away from her altogether, whispering the magical spell that would bring dim light from the fixture that hangs in the center of the room. They both wince at the relative brightness.

Kel looks flustered. "No, that's not what I meant. It's sudden, certainly," she says in response to his raised eyebrows. "But it's not _too_ sudden." She takes his hand in her own and squeezes it gently. "I like you, Wyldon. I've been thinking about this for a while."

Something in her face is different. Her dreamy eyes are the same, with their bewitching and ridiculously long lashes. Her lips do not offer that infamous polite smile – the one that conceals every thought in her head. But her cheeks flush ever so slightly – from someone like Kel, this is as open with her emotions as he has ever seen. This blush, along with her easy use of his name, moves him.

"Always be open and honest with me," he murmurs, pulling her into his arms again. He does not kiss her, but embraces her, resting one hand on her precious head. "We are alike in that we hide our thoughts from the world, whenever we can. You are far better at it, of course."

"I call it my 'Yamani mask'," she admits with a quiet laugh. "It isn't polite to show your feelings."

"It is in the Eastern Lands," he says, kissing her fiercely. He wants to tell her every thought he's ever had about her, but doesn't know where to begin. He can't remember when things began to change, and when their easy friendship took on a new and different aspect. "But we can't expect each other to read minds – you have to tell me things. Have you done anything like this before, Keladry?"

"Are you asking if I'm a virgin, or whether I've ever had a spur-of-the-moment night of romance?" She flushes again. "The answer to both is no."

"I don't want this to be just one night of romance," he says, his voice gruff.

"I was hoping you would feel that way," she replies, one corner of her mouth turning up into the slightest of smiles.

He kisses her aggressively, running his hands over her body. He enjoys her soft moan beneath his mouth, and the way her hands begin to explore him. He wants her more than he has wanted any woman in a very long time. Her lips trail down his neck and she unbuttons the collar of his shirt, granting further access to her lips and tongue. With a groan, he begins to unlace her bodice. He wants access to more than her modest neckline will allow.

"Should we move to the bedroom?" Kel asks with a gasp. "Or do you intend to take me standing right here?"

"Don't tempt me," he growls. With once swift motion he picks her up and carries her into the bedroom.

***

"I still have to make an appearance at Raoul's party," Kel finally says. She is curled up against him, idly running her hands along the thick scars of his right arm. "Do you want to go?"

He rolls over her, pinning her wrists above her head. "I'd rather you stayed," he murmurs, kissing her thoroughly.

"As nice as that sounds, I promised I'd stop in." She locks her legs around his waist and forcefully knocks him to his back. She smirks down from atop him. "You taught me that move, you know. Will you join me?"

"Yes," he agrees with a laugh.

"Good." She leans down to kiss him, running her hands from his wrists to his biceps. He marvels that after everything they've done this evening, her touch can still send shivers down his spine.

She climbs out of bed and dresses swiftly. He watches her, enjoying the view of her young, muscled body. He likes how strong she is; their lovemaking was rough and aggressive, powerful in ways he could never have shared with Vivenne and her comparative frailty. He is almost ashamed of how much it excited him, of how much he enjoyed it.

He, too, stands and dons his clothes. His mind involuntarily drifts to memories of his late wife, and he wonders what she would say, if she could speak to him now. Perhaps she would chastise him for foolishness. Maybe she would smile knowingly and say that even a Stump like him – gods curse Queenscove, for Wyldon is _certain_ the nickname came from him – can embrace spontaneity. He hopes that she would see how content – no, how happy – he is. He can't remember the last time he felt this way. Not since Vivenne's death, certainly. Not since before the war with Scanra.

"Are you all right?" Kel asks, her brows furrowing in concern.

"Fine," he says gruffly. It won't do, thinking of another woman after climbing out of bed with her. He wonders, for one maddening instant, if she has been thinking of previous lovers this evening.

Kel crosses the room, straightening the eight-pointed star pinned to his tunic. It's a medal for valor in war – she has one as well, but does not wear it. "You're still frowning," she says.

"Will you come back with me tonight – sleep here?" He doesn't like to hear timidity in his voice, but he worries that he will come across as commanding. She's spent many years as his subordinate; it won't do if she feels like the decision is not hers.

"Of course." She slips into her shoes and leaves the bedroom, making her way for the door to the palace corridor.

"Wait," he says, pulling her back. "I'll check to see if the hallway is clear first. The last thing you need is gossip."

"Wyldon." She looks up at him, hazel eyes laughing. He likes hearing his name on her lips. "There's already gossip about us. Let's just go."

She reaches out to the doorknob, but he stops her again. "Wait," he says, pulling her away from the door again.

"What this time?"

He kisses her long and slow, holding the back of her neck with one hand. "Midwinter is for luck," he murmurs against her mouth. "And it's a time for change. But once the longest night of the year is over, it's a time for rejuvenation."

She reaches up to caress his face – the gesture of a lover, not a play-thing. He can never see her as a one-night romance.

"Thank you," he says, releasing her at last so she can open the door.

- the end -


End file.
